And the Star Spoke
by sunisha
Summary: This story chronicles the events that led up to the formation of the Care Bear Family - at least, how this author imagined it happened. Be warned, folks - this story goes WAY back in time.
1. Part 1: In the Shelter of the Oak

Disclaimer: This humble author does not own any member of the Care Bear Family, Dark Heart, No Heart, the Great Wishing Star, or any other character already under the possession of American Greetings, Nelvana, Dic, etc. However, this author DOES own everyone else who appears in this story. The tale you are about to read draws heavily on Care Bears Movie 2, substantially on the Marvel comics of the Care Bears, and very lightly on Care Bears Movie 1 (mainly for characters who otherwise do not show up in Movie 2). It is also the product of years of effort - so be warned, for in the span of these many years, a great deal of interpretation and imagination that is not part of the cannon inevitably snaked its way into this story, and became an integral part of it. Now that you have been forewarned, enjoy - and please read and review!

**PART 1: IN THE SHELTER OF THE OAK**


	2. Chapter 1: The Beginning

**Chapter 1: The Beginning**

"With one final heave, Vera swung the obstinate bucket over the last unruly hedge and into the clearing. The little bear cub breathed in deeply, happily. Berries. The air was thick with their rich, sweet scent. Eagerly, she made for the nearest bush and tugged the morsels free, popping almost as many into her mouth as she dropped into the bucket. She knew that she was staining her cream colored coat with red berry juice, and that Mother would tease her for splurging on a second breakfast – but she could worry about that later. Right now, the summer berries were just irresistible.

Vera thrust her paw deeper into the bush, knowing that the sweetest berries were often the best hidden. She felt along the rough branch for the soft yet firm flesh…  
Something warm and furry collided with her outstretched paw. Not a moment later, the Thing she had touched within the bush was screaming—

"Aaaaah!" shouted Vera in terror, scrambling away.

In her haste, Vera stumbled and fell, then sprang back up again. She fled to the nearest tree, crashing noisily through the undergrowth, and flung herself behind it. The Thing didn't seem to have followed her: The only sounds were the bubbling songs of the sparrows, the soft yet immense rustling of the leaves above her head, the hammering of her heart, and the ragged rhythm of her breath.

She waited a minute, and then dared to peer around the trunk of her tree to look at the berry bush. Sure enough, she saw that a small pair of eyes, frightened and watchful, hung among the thick green bristles. Before she could duck out of sight again, the eyes found her – and then they widened in alarm and retreated into the darkness.

The Thing was afraid of her!

Cautiously, the bear cub made her way back to the bush, making sure to take only a few steps at a time. She could see that the eyes were still there, and that they were growing more and more nervous as she drew closer to their hiding place. Finally, she stopped when she was four paces away, and cocked her head to one side, in an unconscious gesture of curiosity.

"How come…you're afraid of me?"

Two silvery eyes gazed apprehensively back at her.

"It's okay," Vera breathed, drawing nearer. "You can come out now – I'm not gonna hurt you."

The creature inside seemed to retreat farther into the bush.

"Come on, little guy," the bear cub coaxed. "How long have you been in there? Don't you want to come out and play?"

The eyes widened. Vera thought she could see that they belonged to a small, strange face.

"That's it," she said encouragingly as the little face drew nearer, as if it was daring to take a peek. "I won't hurt you. My name's Vera, and I like you."

The little creature poked its head free of the prickly branches – briefly, but long enough for Vera to realize that it had beautiful purple fur, and a small aqua and blue mane. Involuntarily, the bear cub gasped and clapped her berry-stained paws over her mouth. Startled, the little creature ducked back out of sight.

"But you're a baby!" Vera squealed in delight. "Awww…how cute!" When no answer came from the bushes, she went on, "Oh, I'm sorry – I scared you again, didn't I? I didn't mean it. You can come out and I won't say a thing, I promise."

For a moment, nothing happened. But just as Vera was about to sigh and give up, the little creature emerged again, his chubby little face now more curious than afraid.

"That's it," whispered Vera as the strange cub gazed solemnly back at her. "I knew you'd be my friend. Now why don't you come out? You can have some berries," she added hopefully.

Shyly, the little cub shook himself free of the branches. Now that she could see him clearly, Vera had no idea what sort of a creature he was. He had pointed ears that sat on top of his head, rather than on either side of it; and his tail was made completely of very long, thick fur. Yet he seemed to have the same body structure as she did, and he stood erect on his hind legs, just as she did. But Vera knew what it felt like to look different from everyone else, and so she didn't comment on how strange his appearance was to her. Besides, he seemed barely older than a toddler: He was no bigger than an average forest hare, and his face still harbored some of the last traces of infanthood. Smiling, she shared with him a few of her precious berries, and he clumsily tore the first open with uncoordinated fingers.

"Here," she said, placing a second pawful in his lap. "You can finish these, and then we can find your mommy together, okay?"

At this, the little cub opened his mouth, but almost immediately changed his mind as his lips began to tremble.

"What's wrong, little guy? Don't you want to go back to your mommy?"

The cub nodded, but his eyes were full of an anguish he should have been too young to understand. Vera frowned in consternation: The look on his face was unmistakable. She had seen it only once before, when she found a two-week-old rabbit kitten whose parents had been eaten alive by Vultures. "Oh," she murmured, her eyes filling with an uncomfortable mixture of pity and horror. "You've lost your mommy, haven't you?" She didn't wait for her companion to answer. Instead, she went on, as brightly as she could, "Don't worry, little guy – you're safe now. Nothing will hurt you ever again, not while you're in this forest."

She was only met with round-eyed bewilderment.

"Tell you what – you can live with me and my mommy! It'll be wonderful! We can play hide and seek, and tell each other stories, and play Vines, and we can eat all the berries we want. Would you like that?"

The excitement in Vera's voice seemed to do the little cub some good. Or, at least, his small pointed ears perked up, and to Vera he seemed to look somewhat more hopeful.

"Good!" the bear cub smiled, delighted. "We can go find her together. Come on!"

At that, Vera sprang up to her feet and waited for her new friend to do the same – but all he did was stare at her. "Come on!" she said coaxingly.

But the little cub's eyes were darting back and forth to and from the berry bush he had been hiding in not long before. He started edging towards it, attempting to drag her with him. Vera realized that he was shaking.

"Aw, you're still scared, aren't you?" she said softly. Keeping her grip on his paw, she drew herself up to her full height, and she said as authoritatively as she could,

"Look little guy – don't be afraid. Nothing's gonna hurt you here! This forest is magic! Not even No Heart can get you in here." She gestured proudly to the stately trees and vines around her, her eyes bright with childish trust. Suddenly wind gushed over the quiet branches, animating them with far more life than they had harbored a moment before. The loud rustling of the leaves, the treble of the birds perched on the twigs high above, and the chirping of the chipmunks from within the hidden recesses of the bark all swelled into a crescendo, as if singing their agreement with Vera's statement. The little purple cub stopped edging away and blinked up at her again, this time in awe.

"See?" she whispered. "They're all protecting us."

The bear cub smiled at her little companion's wide-eyed astonishment as the forest continued to serenade them with its majestic song. And then like a contented sigh, the wind died down, and the trees were once again the silent, stately pillars that kept vigil over them both.  
As the last of the warbling birds fluttered away, Vera found herself hesitating for a moment. But then, when she saw that the little cub was still gazing wonderingly at the trees, she asked shyly, "You wanna come?"

The cub finally nodded, slowly yet firmly, and then tightened his grip on her paw. Grinning in delight, Vera began to pick her way towards the hedge, leading her new friend through the undergrowth. As he fell into step beside her, she began to chatter away about her life in the forest – about how wonderful her mommy was, what it was like to live in a cave, and how much fun it would be to have a new brother. Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks, tilting her head to one side.

"By the way – what's your name?"

The kindness in her voice seemed to have brought some order back into the cub's torn little life. It was probably this, more than anything else, that finally allowed him to speak for the first time.

"I'm Ar – "

Before he could finish, he quickly clamped both paws over his mouth.

"Art? That's what your name is?"

Slowly, with wide, frightened eyes, the little cub nodded.

For a moment, Vera frowned; she knew without a doubt that she had just been told a lie. But seeing the frightened vulnerability in her new companion's face, she decided that now was not the time to press him, or he might just dive right back into the bushes where she had found him. "Okay Art – let's go find my mommy!"


	3. Chapter 2: At the River

**Chapter 2: At the River**

The broad leaves of the sugar maples rustled invitingly against each other in the fresh spring wind. A trio of spotted sparrows darted nimbly through the shifting leaves, coming to rest atop a thin twig high over the forest floor. For a moment, only their sweet, quiet twitters could be heard over the gentle rustle of the trees – but their conversation was cut short by a loud, happy shriek from somewhere below.

"Art, wait up - you know I can't run as fast as you!"

"Catch me if you can, then!" 

"Hare-legged show-off!"

"Boring berry breath!"

Giggling breathlessly, Art and Vera raced over the fallen logs and hollows between neighboring tree roots, unaware of the twittering sparrows above them. The two cubs broke suddenly through the trees into the open air of the riverbank, where the towering pines gave way to springy green grass that melted into the sodden, rocky riverbed. The cub named Art reached the shallow water first, collapsing with a grin into the cool, sweet wetness. Clutched in one paw was a small basket woven from the bark of fallen logs and held together with dried sap. He barely had time to scoop some water with his paws into the basket before his companion reached the river's edge, still sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her. Art stood up to receive her, dripping and holding the basket with both paws behind his back, but the bear cub seemed to have no intention of stopping – and she was headed straight for him, at top speed!

"Gotchya!" she squealed as she pummeled into her friend, who was so startled that he dropped the berry basket.

"Ouch! What was that for, Vera?"

"That was for running ahead," said the cream-colored bear cub, placing her own basket squarely over her friend's ears. The two cubs were now sitting side by side in the stream.

From under his new hat, Art tried to keep his face straight, but he couldn't suppress a sly smile. He made to reach for his own berry basket and dump its wet contents onto his friend's head, but his paws only met empty water and abruptly came to rest on the smooth, hard stones that lined the riverbed. "Uh, oh," he said, as he spotted the missing object bobbing away from him downstream. It was dangerously close to the point where the shallows abruptly fell off a U-shaped cliff, diving into a foamy waterfall that fed the winding river below.

Luckily, they had spotted the basket in the nick of time. In seconds the two cubs had scrambled to the cliff edge, snatched their prized possession, and had raced back to the green plains. Soon they were sitting in the springy grass, their feet dipped in the chilly water that tickled their toes as it glided past. Vera was smirking, but Art's face was contrite.

"Let's do that again! We'll let it go even farther this time, and then we'll race to see who can get it first!" the bear cub exclaimed, placing her basket back into the river.

Art snatched it back out again and set it down next to the other basket on the grass (he was no longer wearing the makeshift hat). "No, Ver – you know what Mother would say if we lost another one."

"Oh, Art…"

"Remember how annoyed she was when we had to make the first one all over again from scratch?"

"She'd love us just the same."

"No, Ver."

"Scaredy squirrel."

"I'm a horse, Ver."

"You're not acting like one."

The purple horse (or foal, rather) grabbed both baskets stubbornly. "Mother's getting too old for this."

The bear cub gave up with a good-natured sigh. She leaned backwards with her legs spread wide, so that all her weight fell on her upper paws, which were planted in the dirt behind her. Art handed her back a berry basket and got to his knees, tearing tufts of the tender grass blades out of the earth and dropping the juicy morsels into the second. Every berry season, it was their job to collect at least one basket of the green shoots apiece, to supplement their diet of soft masts and roots and tubers. Vera watched for a moment, but then with a resigned smile got to work, too. She had wanted to play water tag in the river first, but as usual, her friend was determined to fulfill all promised chores before having fun. Sometimes she felt that she was the younger sister, even though Art was three years her junior.

It had not always been this way, Vera remembered. Six berry seasons had passed since the day she had found her friend in the bushes. When Vera had brought the frightened foal back home, her mother had taken one look at the small, bedraggled horse-cub (this is what she had declared Art to be, when Vera had uncertainly said that she had found some kind of mutant rabbit in the woods) before deciding to take the little one in. Since then, life had ensued as Vera had promised. The two cubs had grown up side by side as brother and sister, frolicking through the forests of the Peaceful Valley by day and sleeping under their protective cover by night.

Over the years, both Art and Vera had come to realize that, although the forest was their home, they were somehow separate from it, just as a flower, though nestled intimately with all the leaves of a bush, remains distinct from its leafy green companions. There was no resentment, seclusion, or even arrogance in this separation; rather, the two cubs stood out from all the other animals like the soft-petaled beauties of a rosebush. In reflection of this, the inhabitants of the forest had fondly bestowed several nicknames on the pair of them, but the one they most commonly used (and not without a twinge of envy) was "the evercubs" – for it seemed that Art and Vera would never age.

Art and Vera were of two different species, but they looked remarkably similar. Both were small and squat, like baby bear cubs – but rather than walking on all fours, they both stood on their hind legs, like the groundhogs that stepped out of their burrows every spring. Their bellies and their muzzles were round and covered completely in snow-white fur, and their small faces were also round, and quite chubby. Because they could hold and manipulate objects in their front paws, they were often in high demand among the forest animals; as one squirrel had put it, carrying an acorn from one side of the forest to another is much easier than rolling one the same distance. But what really drew everyone's attention was the color of their fur. Vera's fur was light yellow-white, very much like cream, yet nothing at all like her mother's dark brown coat; the contrast was so stark that sometimes, she pretended that she was a polar bear of the northern realms. But Art's fur took on an even more unnatural hue. Its soft purple was rivaled only by the lavenders and lilacs; and nothing like his tail or his mane, both striped blue and aqua, had ever been seen in the forest.

Art's young face was at peace as he worked, diligently picking away the dirt that clung to the ends of each tuft of grass before dropping them into the basket. From the light smile on his face and the cheerful brightness in his silvery eyes, a casual onlooker would never have guessed that his story had begun so sadly. But it was now common knowledge to the inhabitants of the forest that Art was a refugee from the Great Wide World, that mysterious expanse of land and water that composed the world outside the Peaceful Valley – and that he had fled here after losing his parents to an evil red sorcerer.

When the cubs had been younger, Vera had curiously pressed the young foal for details about his past. But Mother had soon put a stop to this, sternly informing her that her new friend needed the space to grieve, and the time to heal. Vera had been disappointed and perplexed at first, for she lived as plainly and honestly as an open field, which splays itself before the sun and the sky and birds overhead, bare patches and all. It was her way to explain to her friends everything about herself and the life she led, and she had trouble understanding why he would not reciprocate.

However, Vera had gotten her answers soon enough. Before long she had found him doodling long, graceful faces in the dirt with a rather unwieldy pointed stick. That day, and for several instances afterwards, Art had hurriedly smeared the images the moment he realized that she had been watching. But one day, Vera had waited in the undergrowth until she was sure he had finished. When she saw the completed sketches, she couldn't help but exclaim at how beautiful they were – and after recovering from the shock of being caught, the little foal had grinned shyly up at her and had finally admitted that he had been drawing the faces of his parents, to keep him from forgetting what they had looked like.

After that day, many afternoons would find the pair of them huddled together over a bare patch of earth, where Art would draw the things of his past, and Vera would gaze on in wonder. She learned that her friend had once lived with his parents and with many other kinds of animals in a human structure called Barn on some kind of settlement named Farm. He would draw out what he remembered of that life, of the hay and the stalls and the geese that would sometimes poke their heads under the stall doors to take a curious look at him. He told her of the human who was the master of his former home, of the loving way the benevolent creature had fed him carrots and apples and sugar cubes. Vera had never heard of these things, but they filled her with powerful longing. The tart, juicy sweetness of an apple; the rich, musty smell of hay; and the odd, long necks of the curious creatures called geese all sounded irresistible to her. Fueled by the exotic stories of her friend, the little bear's thirst for a glimpse of the Great Wide World ripened with each passing day.

But as Vera learned more about her friend, her longing to see the world outside the Valley took on a chill of dread, too. It was mainly the things she learned at night that frightened her. Especially in the early days, she and Mother had often been awoken by Art's anguished cries for his parents in the aftermath of terrible nightmares – and from what she overheard as Mother soothed her little brother back to sleep, she gathered the details of this tragedy. She learned that a great red sorcerer had arrived in the night at Art's beloved Barn, and that he had done away with everyone in Farm: Art's parents, the other horses, the cows, the pigs, the geese that had peeked at him under his stall, and even the farmer. He had then chased the helpless foal to the edge of the woods. Art had scampered into the trees, terrified that the sorcerer would still catch him, but the red demon had been unable to follow him: A powerful force, one that belonged to the Great Tree of the Valley and the lesser trees of her dominion, had kept the evil one at bay at the forest edge.

But for the moment, in the crisp spring daylight on the banks of the glittering shallows, Art's past was as forgotten to them as the mist that coated the Valley meadows at dawn. Her basket nearly full, Vera stood up and stole quietly into the river waters, careful not to make a sound. If she timed it just right, she would be able to wet her friend's mane.

"Don't even think about it," Art said flatly, not even bothering to turn around.

"Aw…" groaned Vera, un-cupping her paws and letting the river water she had collected there spill onto her feet.

"Besides, I'm not done yet."

"That's 'cause you're cleaning all the grass like it's poisoned or something!"

"And Mother will like my share better."

"As usual," huffed Vera, wading farther into the wide riverbed. For a few more minutes the pair was silent as the foal finished his work, and then finally clapped the dirt off of his paws. Then he looked up to find his friend pouncing in the shallows, in a half-hearted attempt to catch a fish. Even at thirteen years of age, she had yet to capture her first kill, and Mother had been nagging at her with every passing day to practice. Then again, Vera was not like most thirteen-year-old bears – she was still a cub, rather than the middle-aged matriarch she was supposed to be.

Art watched for a few moments with a funny rumpled expression on his face, an uncomfortable mixture of amusement and consternation. He knew that bears needed to live on fish, but he had never liked the idea of eating something that had once thought or felt. But fortunately for the foal, Vera found the task of fishing tedious and unrewarding. Realizing that he was watching her, the cream-colored cub stopped in her tracks and gave up with a cheerful grin. "Well, I guess fishing time is over!" she said brightly. "Let's see if we can beat Mother home!"

Giggling once more, the evercubs trotted back the way they had come, considerably more slowly now that their baskets were full. As they picked their way back to their den, dripping river water along their path, the dogwoods clustered at their feet with tiny sighs and lapped in the delicious droplets. Overhead the birches leaned quietly against the sugar maples, which whispered through their leaves to the spruces and junipers that towered over the smiling cubs. With a fond collective breath, the trees gently showered the wet pair in petals and fragrant needles, as if decorating them for their homecoming.


	4. Chapter 3: In the Wrong

**Chapter 3: In the Wrong**

Before long, Art and Vera were facing a moss-covered hill decked in fronds and laced with dogwood flowers, which were beginning to peep open in the green, leaf-filtered light. A dark recess in the hill yawned blackly before them, and Vera poked her head in, listening carefully for signs of movement. When none were forthcoming, she set her basket down at the mouth of the cave and turned gleefully to her friend.

"Yes!" she whispered in a triumphant rush. "We beat Mother home! Quick, let's hide, before she comes back!"

"But Ver – "

"C'mon, she likes it when we scare her!"

"But Ver, she's – "

"Shh!"

Vera pulled her friend into the dim enclosure, and then let go as she retreated towards the deepest wall to conceal her conspicuous fur. Smirking, Art lingered on the threshold of their home, for he already knew what would happen next.

"Boo!"

"Aaaaaaack!" shrieked Vera's voice from the back of the cave. The cream colored cub streaked back out the way she came, knocking Art and his berry basket into the ground. A moment later, a much larger black bear sauntered out on all fours, her cinnamon colored muzzle taut with a sparkling grin. The dark face was solemn and wise, but the deep, brown eyes glittered with mischief.

"Oh, Mother…" began Vera.

"I tried to tell you she was already there," panted Art between chuckles, "but you wouldn't listen!"

"And I'm so glad you didn't!" said the older bear with a grin. She brushed her wet black nose tenderly against each of their faces, and then pawed at Art's basket to set it upright again. "What have we here, my diligent little ones?"

"Fresh grass for the evening meal," said Vera dutifully. She reached for her basket and set it beside Art's.

"And did you catch any fish today, my Very Berry?"

The cream colored bear fell silent.

"Vera, dear?"

Art fidgeted as his friend's face fell into the predictable scowl. It seemed that this evercub was finally growing up enough for her budding adolescent rebelliousness to make its entrance.

"Oh, Mother – do I _have_ to fish? Can't I just gather roots and nuts and buds for you? Besides, Art never goes fishing. And neither do my friends."

The dark brown bear stood patiently before her daughter cub, who, even on her hind legs, barely reached the older bear's chin. "Vera," she said gently, "you're no longer an infant, or even a toddler. You have seen thirteen berry seasons with your own two eyes."

"But Mother…"

"Your paws are dexterous, your mind is sharp, and your body is young and full of life. You have everything you need to make your first catch."

"Everything except big fangs!" Vera mumbled to herself.

Unfortunately, Mother heard. "Differences don't excuse you from responsibility," countered the large bear firmly. "Your every sense and sinew can be your servants. But let them master you, and you will never know true freedom."

The young evercub swallowed an aggravated whine at the old maxim. Like every other inhabitant of the forest, Mother revered the Great Tree of the the Valley, the ancient guardian oak who cast her protective aura over their vast homeland from her post at the center of the Peaceful Forest. It had been she who had uttered these wise words long ago, to Beaver the Bungler, who had sought her audience. For it had been an age when Beaver was new to the land, and had still waddled about the forest floor in complete ignorance of his aquatic prowess. But here and now, when beavers paddled through streams and deftly snatched trout from their icy depths, what could a stationary, organic pillar like the Great Tree know of the maddening monotony of feeling fish after slippery fish dart past Vera's cold-numbed lips?

"Child," the older bear said placidly, "most bears your age are already mothers many times over, catching fish for their own little ones. Five years ago I, too, was thirteen. And at that time, I was already fishing for you."

Vera's face fell, and Art scrambled away from her, as if he, too, could feel the pang of contrition that had finally registered in her downturned gaze. "Oh, Mother…I know I'm too old to still be making you hunt for me...I know I should have left you alone long ago, like all the other bears. I'm sorry I'm different. I don't understand," she finished plaintively.

"Dear one, you are sorry for the wrong reasons!" said Mother. When Vera returned a baffled frown at this pronouncement, the older bear bent her head low, so that it was level with her charge's downcast face. Her eyes were moist and sweet, like pools of fresh honey. "You are right to recognize your mistakes," the matriarch said, even as she tenderly nosed at her evercub's cheeks, "but to be sorry for who you are - that is self-effacement. I'll have none of it. You are different, yes - but you are also my cub. I love you, my sweet one - _every part _of you, differences and all. Do you understand?"

Vera did not raise her chin just yet, but she quickly peeked up at her mother with bright eyes, and then nodded her hopeful assent.

"And when I'm no longer here in body to guide you, I'll live on in the trees and the grass and the winds and all the other good things in this world. And when I'm watching you from the stars, I want to see a thriving, self-sufficient bear - one wise and prosperous and generous enough to care for others in the same way as I have cared for you."

Vera looked up questioningly into the large, warm eyes, and she was relieved to find a small smile splayed across her mother's muzzle.

"You will learn to fish, as I have done before you. Tomorrow you will try again. And I will help you."

Vera proffered her Mother a brief nuzzle, the customary ursine signal that she had heard, and would mind the instructions of her elder with no lingering grudge. But then she returned her gaze to the ground, for she could not decide how to feel at the moment. She had escaped with only a hint of a scolding, and the promise of love in spite of her prolonged youth. And yet she was still expected to make her first catch.

"Quickly, now - you don't want to keep Brother Toot-Hoot waiting. Roosting time will be ending soon."

Toot-Hoot was a barred owl who roosted in the hollow of an obliging cottonwood tree by day and glided amid the grassy plains of the Peaceful Valley by night. He was not Mother's brother in any sense, but she affectionately referred to him as such because he also happened to be the evercubs' main educator. The source of his impressive store of knowledge, which included arithmetic, physics, literature, and even a smattering of European philosophy, was a human library seven miles beyond the southern border of the Great Tree's realm. Many a night saw Toot-Hoot swooping through a hole in the old building's neglected attic, and then returning to his faithful cottonwood hours later with pilfered volumes on every subject from archaeology to zymology. The previous day he had promised the evercubs a lesson on geography, and both were loathe to postpone it.

So the cubs were quick to fall to their preparations, hurriedly snacking on tender lily buds that Mother had collected for them in their absence. Art nibbled cheerfully enough on the crushed, slightly torn petals, pausing only to shoot his friend uncertain glances between swallows. But Vera munched in silence, and Art soon gave up, hoping that her disgruntled mood would evaporate in the heat of her anticipation. Toot-Hoot would have stories of the Great Wide World outside the Valley, and Vera was always anxious to hear them.

But luck seemed to have turned against Art. As they traipsed past the giant fallen logs of cedar and wended their way through the aspen shrubs, the normally talkative Vera plodded silently behind him. The purple foal flicked his ears nervously and trotted ahead in an attempt to coax her into another race, but she did not break her peace, not even when he doubled back to help untangle an unfriendly patch of burrs that had clung to her creamy fur.

"Oh, come on, Ver, don't be angry - Mother said she still loves you."

"I'm not angry at Mother," she sniffed.

"Oh. All right." Art yanked out a burr, and Vera yelped. "Sorry. So who are you mad at?"

"You," she huffed, snatching the burr from his outstretched paw and flinging it viciously into the bushes.

"Huh?" Art's eyes widened. "Why?"

"Because it's not fair! _You_ don't have to fish. _You_ don't have to harvest ants. Mother may love me, but she loves you more."

"That's not true."

"Is too," the young bear returned brusquely. "Else she'd make you help me."

"But I do want to help. I just - "

Here Art stopped as the distressing memory resurfaced. It had been a warm summer day three berry seasons ago. He and Vera had stumbled upon a bustling anthill that had teemed with irresistibly plump, juicy larvae, the kind that Vera and Mother relied on heavily every spring for sustenance before the berry harvests began. Ordinarily anthills rendered access to the larvae all but impossible, for consuming the white morsels invariably led to the ingestion of nearly as much soil as nutrition. In light of this, most bears avoided the anthills, opting instead to search amid decomposing logs and the damp undersides of abandoned rocks. But to Art and Vera, who could handle small objects in their uniquely shaped paws, anthills posed only a trivial obstacle. The evercubs needed only to prod a thin twig down the main shaft of the anthill to retrieve the prized delicacies.

So Art had nudged a stick down the hole and had begun to scrape the dirt walls with its rough bark tip – but he had been unable to continue. Several inches below him, puny feet were scurrying away from the offending rod in abject fear. He understood this neither from experience, nor even from reason; Art had actually felt the little hearts accelerate in beat, had sensed the droning whine of panic numbing their tiny minds, and had suffered these things as profoundly as if he had momentarily taken on the consciousness of an ant himself.

So Art had deferred his role to an incredulous Vera, who had clucked disapprovingly at him when she had learned the cause of his distress. Art possessed the power to experience the emotions of other beings as strongly as if they were his own. And because he could intimately identify with these ants, dull and mindless as they were to even him, he could not bring himself to terrorize them.

Now, three years after the anthill, Art's telepathic abilities placed him in the same predicament. He could not help Vera fish: In doing so, he would feel about as blameless as the legendary Mother Ursa, made forever infamous in the Valley's folklore by her desperate decision to eat her own young.

"I'd have to feel them cry, Vera," he said imploringly.

"No, you wouldn't. You could try to shut it out."

"No, I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"No, I can't!"

They bickered all along their well-worn path through the underbrush, pausing briefly to draw breath between bouts of brisk walking upon the uneven terrain. They only stopped when they had finally arrived at the foot of Toot-Hoot's cottonwood tree, and this was because neither of them was certain if the barred owl was yet awake.

Fortunately for them, he was; otherwise their arguing would have roused him, and he would have postponed their promised lesson to the next day as punishment for their rudeness. The evercubs were made aware of this fact all too soon, for Toot-Hoot proclaimed it loudly to them the moment they were in eyeshot. "Of all the impudence," grumbled the wood owl before finally falling silent.

Art shot Vera a knowing glance, and then bent his head low, in the customary avian pose of subordination. Vera sighed and then copied. There would be no talk of the Great Wide World at all if they did not repent for their lapse. A moment later their exposed necks were each roughly pecked, once, by Toot-Hoot's narrow, hook-like yellow beak. Satisfied, the wood owl ruffled his feathers with self-assured dignity and then fluttered down beside the disciplined cubs. He grasped a thin, sharp-pointed twig of aspen in his thick white feet.

"Observe," he commanded, hovering off the ground and wielding the stick like a baton. Expertly he twirled it with his left foot, and then his right, and finally with a flick of his claw he directed the sharp point into the bare, packed soil at their feet. In spite of her foul mood, Vera allowed her eyes to brighten at the display.

"Here is the Great Tree of the Valley," began the owl, stroking the earth once with his makeshift stylet. He withdrew it to reveal a small, heavy line in the dirt. Then with lighter strokes he sketched hatch marks all about the first line, so that it was encompassed by a rough blotch that crudely resembled a rectangle. "This is the Peaceful Forest," he continued, gesturing with one wing at the hatch marks, while rapidly flapping with the other to remain aloft. "In the southeast quadrant sits our Great Tree, may she reign forever."

Art giggled at the added benediction, but then quickly stopped when a surge of annoyance licked his insides like a restless flame. It was Vera's anger. He acknowledged the flame by letting the sourness out, with his breath.

"To the east of the Forest lie the Fields of Paradise," Toot-Hoot went on, unperturbed by the distraction. He drew in another set of hashes, lighter still than the first, and angled in another direction. "In the northern Fields are the long wild grasses of the whispering savannahs, where the field mice burrow and the owls may feast. And south of the grasses are the Everspring Marshes and the twin lakes Solace and Serenity. And bounding all these," the owl said, his voice rising and swelling meaningfully when he saw Vera's eyes beginning to glaze and wander, "are the Treebrim Mountains. They sit in a ring around the Fields and Forest like sentries, watching over our great land as is their duty."

Here Art smiled, remembering back to one summer night two years ago, when Mother had soothed him back to sleep in the wake of one of his nightmares. She had told him the Tale of the Mountains, the age-old legend that explained the origin of their home the Peaceful Valley. The world had been young then. Their land had been tormented by harsh, stormy skies; cruel, frigid winds; and deep, unrelenting snowfall, which came down so thick and fast that the ground groaned and iced over under its monumental weight. The Great Tree had been at the height of her youth then, a solid, towering oak, but not yet graced with gnarls of root breaking the ground's surface. She had sent up a whispering prayer through her ragged leaves to that formless, transcendent force, the Great Maker, that had sustained her through those hellish years – and at her plea, the Maker had answered, calling mountains to bud and rise out of the earth in a great ring about the forests and fields and lakes and marshes. And the mountains shielded all within them from the cruel clouds heavy with snow, and from the icy wind that froze all it touched. And with this miracle the Peaceful Valley began, warm and verdant, nestled in the hollow of this monumental shield.

"What about the rivers?" Art asked suddenly. In the wake of his musings, he had taken to admiring the mountains in his mind's eye, and he remembered that they not only guarded the valley, but also nurtured it with the icy water they collected in their lofty bosoms.

"Very good, Art," the owl hooted. "The rivers run from east to west through the Valley. Mount Natu gives us the River Saadhan, which runs through the northern half of the forest. And Mount Puru feeds the River Prem, which runs through the southern half. The two rivers join at the eastern edge of the Forest, where they form the Constance - and this runs through the Fields of Paradise like a winding, shimmering thread."

Art smiled his thanks, and at this gesture Toot-Hoot beamed. Vera frowned.

"But Toot-Hoot, what about the geography lesson you promised us?"

The wood owl allowed himself a short string of tooting and hooting laughter, making his namesake humorously apparent. "Vera, my dear cub, that _was_ your geography lesson. _If _you were paying attention, you would know that you have just learned the topography of the whole Peaceful Valley! I've seen it all with my own two eyes, you know."

Toot-Hoot let his stick fall from his claws and puffed himself up with a gigantic breath, no doubt to launch into one of his book hunting expedition stories. But Vera interrupted these preparations.

"Yes," conceded the young bear, concealing her impatience with difficulty, "but you said you would bring home books about the _Great Wide World_." Here she craned her neck upwards, straining for a glimpse inside the hollow that was Toot-Hoot's home. "What about _that_ geography lesson?"

The owl deflated, and Art suppressed another giggle. Toot-Hoot looked just like a berry, shrinking and shriveling in the process of being de-juiced.

"I'll have you know," said the owl in miffed tones, "that I was just getting to that. It's rude to interrupt a good story, you know," he added.

The flame of annoyance rekindled behind Art's breastbone, and the young foal cringed. Vera's anger had reemerged. He couldn't blame her: He had corrected Toot-Hoot not thirty seconds ago and had received praise for doing so, whereas now Vera was being rebuked.

In spite of Vera's temper, the ensuing lesson proved to be both fruitful and fascinating. The evercubs pored over Toot-Hoot's precious library book, which the owl scholar guarded from their eager paws like a mother bear protecting her young. And from it they learned that the Great Wide World was not a flat plane, as they had previously assumed; it was actually a giant sphere that floated within the heavens, suspended there among the bright planets and stars and other cosmic entities of the night sky.

"And what does the Great Wide World look like?" Vera asked keenly.

Art opened his mouth to answer (having lived in the Great Wide World himself, he was certain that Farm and Barn and the other things of his past were typical of what lay outside the Valley) – but Toot-Hoot's words struck him dumb with wonder. They learned that the Great Wide World was mostly covered in vast bodies of water, often thousands of times larger than the lakes Solace and Serenity put together – so large, in fact, that there were new words for them, like _ocean_ and _sea_. There were also great tracts of land called _continents _that floated amid the oceans. The Peaceful Valley lay in the continent called North America, Toot-Hoot informed them. At the cubs' insistence, he pointed out the Valley's exact location on the map (he had fluttered and fluffed his chest feathers and flipped through the book and craned over one of its pages for quite some time at this request, until he finally indicated the spot with the point of his broad wing), and they discovered that they lived on a vast island off the coast of what the human authors of their book called British Columbia.

Two hours later found the young pair traipsing back down the path between the fallen logs and round the bend guarded by the pungent smelling spruces, where grasses and lichens nestled at their rooted feet as if curling up there for warmth and comfort. Art's mind was spinning at the marvel of what they had learned. Farm and Barn were puny in comparison to the Great Wide World as Toot-Hoot had revealed it to them. Had his late parents known this, every time they had nudged him with their long snouts back into his pen, away from the prying eyes of the curious humans that had sometimes visited the settlement? But Art could not dwell on this for long: Vera's soured mood had returned in earnest, and Toot-Hoot's tales from afar were no longer forthcoming to distract her from the source of her resentment. Just as Art was shaking his head in regretful wonderment at her stubborn urge to cling to the unwholesome feelings, two ursine faces peered out at them from between some aspens.

"We're playing 'Bears and Hunters!'" announced the first of these cubs, catching Vera's eye keenly.

"Bears and Hunters, Bears and Hunters!" crowed the second, sitting up on her haunches so that her rugged shoulders were level with the tops of Art's ears. "If you play, we'll let you be the hunter."

Vera eagerly accepted. As Art made to follow them, however, Vera glanced darkly at him, clearly unwilling to include him in her sport, yet too ashamed to admit this aloud. So Art lingered among the aspens while the threesome departed, obligingly calling after them, "Bye, Ver. See you at dusk!"

This left him free to wander about the woodlands alone, soaking in the presence of the still, silent trees. The constance of their unperturbed souls was as grounding to him as the heavens, alight with the ageless stars. After several minutes of thoughtful ambling, Art found himself approaching the riverbank once again. Idly he settled himself in the bifurcation of a cottonwood's roots and watched the water flow. From here it was possible to catch a glimpse of the rest of the Valley - for it was at the U-bend that the River Prem plunged into the Everspring Marshes. And between the trees on this side of the river and their counterparts on the opposite bank, the dim, blue outline of a mountain could be seen, like a majestic face peering humbly between green curtains.

"Look, Sister Cottonwood," Art whispered up to the tall sentry against which he was presently leaning. "You can see Mount Hento from here. And if you squint a little, you can see a bit of Lake Solace in the marshes."

Here the ordinary forest dweller might have scoffed at him, for among all the trees of the Peaceful Forest, only the Great Tree could speak aloud like the animals she sheltered in her immense shadow. But Art knew better than to assume that this was from a lack of intelligence. The sighing of the wind through their leafy crowns was their breathy banter. The swaying of their branches was their slow, deliberate equivalent of body language. And when these were not enough for Art to discern their intent, the young foal would take to quietly resting against their rough, sturdy trunks, so rich with the pulsing phloem of life, and would empty his mind and his heart to make room for the sweet sap of their feelings. These were great, gentle souls, both homely and majestic at once. Art could not help speaking aloud to them, passing on details of the sights they would never see from their stationary vantage points in the Peaceful Forest. It was the best and only way he knew to repay them for their ever-watchful guardianship.

"We saw Toot-Hoot today," Art was telling the kind-natured cottonwood. "And we learned all about the Great Wide World. I'll tell you all about it, if you'd like."

Which he did, at the indulgent cottonwood's request. Thus the afternoon melted into evening, and the moist, cool shadows crept ever closer to the riverbank, until the shaft of sun that had saluted them from above the tree line sunk behind the western mountains, taking the golden glory of the dusk with it.

These gentle pastimes had pushed the thought of Vera's annoyance completely out of Art's mind; but when he returned to their dogwood-crowned den, he was forced to confront it yet again.

"Hi, Ver," he said carefully, eyeing her for signs of snapping.

Vera glanced Mother's way (the older bear was busy nudging the grass they had collected into three piles with the end of her snout) before replying. She could not afford to vent in Mother's presence. "Hi," the young bear said diffidently.

"What were you up to, dearest?" Mother asked Art, as she nuzzled first one windswept cheek, and then the other. At the word _dearest_, Vera's little flame of irritation flickered and swelled, and Art sighed. Why hadn't Mother said _dear_ and left it at that?

As the forest darkened and the grass blades dwindled in their hungry mouths, Vera's temper only mounted. Art knew that she was deliberately channeling her anger at him. He took to replaying the day's events bemusedly in his mind, pausing every so often to empty his bosom of the irksome feelings by breathing out slowly. Why all of this, just because he could not help her fish?

"What do you want me to do, Ver?" Art asked tiredly after Mother had left to harvest conifer bark for the morning meal. "You know I can't help it." When these words yielded no rejoinder, he added, "I thought you liked telepathy. You said you wished you had it too."

"I do," Vera replied stubbornly. "That way, I could read your mind."

"What?" Art was puzzled. "But Ver...I've already let you in before. You said it felt weird. And besides, I don't enter people's heads without their permission. That wouldn't be fair."

"Learned that the hard way, didn't you?"

Art averted his eyes, but he could not avoid the truth of Vera's pronouncement. Art's telepathic powers were not just limited to mood reading; they also allowed him to listen in on another's thoughts. When Vera had discovered this, she had at first been transported with astounded delight. But this soon gave way to resentment when Art, in his childish honesty, began to volunteer Vera's opinion on Toot-Hoot's arithmetic lessons (which were his longest and most boring) out loud. Art had duly repented, however. To make up for his oversight, he had once allowed Vera access into his own mind. And for good measure, he had resolved to never practice his mind-reading abilities on anyone else, unless circumstances unequivocally necessitated their use. For Art was principled in nature; and while he could not shut out the emotions that his neighbors experienced, he could voluntarily clear his mind of others' thoughts.

"I said I was sorry. I didn't mean to make you mad," said Art meekly. After a disgruntled bout of silence from Vera, he asked, "What d'you want to know, anyway? You know I'd tell you anything."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Oh?"

Vera's eyes blazed with alarming intensity. "Don't you dare _'oh_' me, Art. You lied to me! To think I should follow your example. You act like such a goody-goody - but you tell lies all the time, and everyone believes you. Even Mother. What a two-face!"

"Ver! What are you talking about?"

"_You_," she said, glaring. "Your name isn't Art. You lied. All this time I waited for you, hoping you'd come through and tell the truth. But you never said a thing. And now you say you'd tell me _anything_? Don't make me laugh!"

"Is that what this is about?" asked Art in astonishment.

"Don't pretend like it's no big deal. It is! Why did you lie to me?"

"I didn't mean to."

"But you did. You do it every day, and I'm sick of it."

The young foal shrank back miserably. "I really am called Art," he began in a small voice.

"You are _now_. But you weren't before." Here the young bear paused to catch her breath, and Art dared to peek up at her from his recoiled position on the floor. A small gap briefly appeared in the anger-hardened wall of her features. Art's old playmate peered out at him from that gap, plaintive in her longing. "Come on, Art. Why can't you tell me? Don't you trust me?"

"Yes, I do. It's just...well…"

The words that had formed in Art's throat got lost somewhere on the way to his mouth. Confused and ashamed, he drew back into the shadows, so that only his silvery orbits were visible. To Vera they looked strikingly vulnerable, much as they had appeared all those years ago when she had found him in the berry bush.

"I'm sorry I lied," he whispered at length. "Can't we just be friends again?"

Vera rolled over, the to better avoid those soulful eyes. "You can figure that out yourself."

"But Ver…"

Vera lay still among her pine needles, thus invoking the pose of sleep to reinforce her bitter silence. Art gazed helplessly at her backside. What had become of his friend, who for all her flighty moods, had never been known before this day to harbor a grudge? And what of him? What had he done?

Presently Mother returned with the promised tree bark, and Art squirmed as she nuzzled him, as was her custom at bedtime. He kept his eyes tightly shut, for he did not want to trouble her with his misery. Dimly, he felt solid vibrations underfoot from where the matriarch's great paws connected with the earth, and he heard her murmuring to her daughter cub as she proffered the same loving treatment he had received moments ago. Vera's only reply was a series of slow, even breaths. She was truly asleep now, and it would not do to wake her.

Art sighed unhappily as a troubled slumber overtook him. He would have to make up with Vera in the morning.


	5. Chapter 4: The Other Side

**Chapter 4: The Other Side**

For all her anger at Art, there was a time when Vera, too, had resorted to lies. She had been five years old, and her troubles began with an unusual patch of berries. This distinctive fruit grew past the home of Ma Anhah, the medicine bear from whom all the creatures of their part of the wood derived their moral and material guidance. All the woodland folk avoided Ma Anhah's berry bushes, for it was common knowledge that she had sown the seeds herself and had cared for them as if they were her own litter, though she herself was without cubs. But to Vera, berries were berries regardless of how they came to be. She had returned to her den, lively and well-fed, with a plum-stained muzzle and sticky paws. Mother had duly probed her for her hourly whereabouts and her gustatory pursuits; and the moment Vera told her that she had _not _disturbed Ma's sacred bushes, the little cub had vomited up the evidence of her misdeed. Mother had promptly put Vera to bed, believing that the fruit had poisoned her. It was an unhappy evening for both of them.

Vera recovered well enough in the immediate aftermath of that episode. But from then on, a mysterious plague settled upon her, like a vulture that casts its shadow over a dying animal in the desert. One day would find Vera happily attempting to climb the old cottonwood that served as Toot-Hoot's home – and the next would find her in her den, wanting nothing more than to suffer her bouts of nausea and fatigue in her mother's arms. Mother soon worried that a mouthful of field mint taken with a swallow of honey would be insufficient to eliminate the mysterious illness. Vera was small and feeble. She was so unlike anything else in the Forest, so unique in body and spirit, that Mother wondered whether it was a matter of course for evercubs like Vera to blossom early on, only to prematurely wither away from strange infirmities.

Ma Anhah was consulted. When Mother told her of the sacred bush, its fruit, and the bouts of nausea that had marked the decline in Vera's health, the great matriarch sank to her haunches and lowered her head, so that she was at Vera's eye level. Even then, her great face had appeared weathered, and to Vera, the solemn curve of her mouth could only mean a scolding was forthcoming. But Ma Anhah did not scold. Instead, she began to ask questions. How many times had Vera plucked the forbidden fruit? How often would the illness descend, and what had Vera been up to just prior to each episode? Vera duly answered ("I only stole just once - It happens all the time - Last time I was talking to Mother"), to which the older bear would issue slow, deep rumbles of acknowledgment, and then probe her further. At the end of this inquisition, the matriarch drew Vera into her lap.

"Do you know why I named you Vera?" Ma Anhah asked.

Vera told what Mother had revealed to her a month ago, shortly before the illness had begun. "Because I'm magic," she said. "I know when people tell lies."

"That is true, little one," the matriarch conceded. "But there is much more to your name than that."

"There's more?" little Vera asked with sparkling eyes. Perhaps she really was a Spirit Bear after all, as many of the forest animals had believed the first time they had set eyes on her pale-colored fur.

"Yes," rumbled Ma. "You have something much more powerful inside you than your Gift. Do you ever like to sit very still at night, and to listen to the sounds of the Peaceful Valley when it is asleep?"

Vera had never tried this, and from the look on her face, neither had Mother. Vera told Ma Anhah so.

"Well, if you sit very, very still for long enough - " and here Ma Anhah's voice grew even lower than its already deep register, and issued forth quietly, like the shadow of a whisper - "then the sounds outside of you, like the crickets and the stream and the wind between the leaves, all become quiet. And the sounds inside, like your heart and your breath and even your thoughts, all become quiet too. And when everything is still and silent, there is only one thing left. Do you know what that is?"

Vera shook her head, all the while peering hungrily into Ma's great, dark eyes.

"It's the Truth, dear one. That's what I named you for when you were born. When you have looked deeply enough inside of yourself, you will find it running through you like the longest, the freshest, and the cleanest river in the world. There is nothing more powerful than that great, pure Truth that lives inside of you."

Vera did not understand, but instinctively she knew that the matriarch's words were true. Ma Anhah had to be telling the truth: her special ability told her so.

"But when you tell lies," Ma continued, and now her face turned solemn enough for Vera to wish that she was not in this bear's lap, but instead in Mother's, "it is like you are throwing poison into that beautiful river. No one trusts a river that has been poisoned. As such, no one trusts a heart that has been polluted with dishonest words." The great bear paused, and then asked, "Have you been telling lies, little one?"

Her voice was mild, but Vera, who was normally confident enough to withstand any gaze, now felt compelled to turn away from Ma Anhah's grave, peering eyes. "Yes, Ma," she whispered. And then the little cub buried her face into the dark, thick fur of the old bear's breast and whimpered.

"Oh, Vera," Mother sighed unhappily.

"There, there," the matriarch rumbled, her voice low and very kind. She turned her dark, tender gaze towards Mother. "Do not think that you have a bad cub, my dear. Your little one is very special indeed. She is so touched by the Maker's grace that her very soul revolts against falsehood. This is why she has been so ill. For whenever she lies, her body, being but a projection of her transcendental self, cannot tolerate it. But when she stands for truth, she will become very powerful indeed."

Mother was not so easily appeased. In astonishment, she asked, "So every time my little Vera got sick, it was because she lied to me?"

"I am afraid so."

"But why, Vera? Why have you been lying?"

Vera did not raise her head from Ma Anhah's breast, and so her voice came out shuddery and muffled. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I thought everyone could tell the truth from a lie like me. But when you said that I was the only one, I wanted to see if you were right. It was like a game, except that I always won because I was the only one who could tell when things weren't true. I didn't know I was being bad."

"There, there," rumbled Ma again as the little cub whimpered. She held Vera close and gave the top of her head a sturdy, placid nuzzle. "Now you know what is right and what is wrong," the matriarch said. "Go to your mother now."

Vera peered up questioningly at the great, weathered face, and then scurried into the arms of her mother, who licked her wet cheeks soothingly.

"Go and be happy my dears," said Ma. "And don't lie anymore," she added, with a special and rare smile for Vera. And into Vera's paws, she placed a pile of plum-colored berries - the very same fruit the evercub had stolen in the first place.

Years later, Vera had yet to grasp the full import of the splendid Truth that Ma Anhah had described. But just as a flame is inseparable from its essence, heat, so Vera existed in complete harmony with that Truth, which flowed as effortlessly from her lips as her idle breath. Her forthright nature stemmed not from guilt, fear, or any obligation towards her namesake. Lying had been cumbersome and unnatural, and Vera's passing indulgence in deception had been nothing more than a transient whim of curiosity. Thus in the shelter of the Great Tree of the Valley, and under the watchful eyes of Mother and Ma Anhah, Vera passed through her early cubhood with her arms and her heart splayed wide open. From the candor of this existence, she reaped the freedom and ease of spirit that comes when one has nothing to conceal from the world.

Vera may have carried on this way forever, had it not been for Art.

Upon finding him in the berry bush, Vera had willingly opened her home and her life to her new friend, expecting him to spout out the realities of his own existence as easily as she had shared her own. But Art did not oblige her in this way. At first, he barely spoke at all. He was like the flowering mimosas at the Great Wide World's equator, sweet-tempered and pleasing to all who beheld him from a distance, but quick to withdraw from the direct touch of inquiry. Mother explained that Art was entitled to reveal his thoughts and feelings to Vera at his own pace. So Vera held herself back, albeit grudgingly. Over the years, Art rewarded Vera for her patience, and their relationship deepened past the rapport that comes with proximity and into the communion that bonds true and best friends.

Vera imagined that she would one day know Art as fully as he knew her. For Vera was a stream of transparency; she had revealed to Art every treasured jewel of her psyche: her past, her beliefs, her dreams, and as much of the great Truth as she had grasped. Would Art not release the stream of his own past, to mingle with her own?

She dared hope so - even though Art's first words to her had been a lie.

They had lived six berry seasons together, and still, Art had not told her the truth. He had told Vera of Barn, his home before the home that Vera had created for him. He told her of his parents and the farmer that had been his family, and he had explained to her all about the geese, and the pigs, and the haylofts and sheep, and even something of the sorcerer who had taken all these things away from him. For all the Forest knew, he may have told her everything - but Vera knew better. She alone knew that Art's true name remained a secret to everyone.

Still, as Art had found his place in the Peaceful Forest, he had grown more fully into himself, as well as his new identity. And with effort, Vera had convinced herself that Art's past appellative mattered little to her. Even Art believed as much. Why, then, had Vera been so incensed by Art's reticence?

Vera's anger was one of the many eruptions that result when a growing cub inevitably wages war against themselves. Some event sets into motion a shift in the normally smooth layers of one's self-perception, forcing them out of alignment. Only a season ago, even at her advanced absolute age, Vera could caper beneath the spruce and fir and cottonwood trees with the gusto of a yearling, and the Forest would gaze upon her with indulgent smiles. But now her mother was growing old, and there were fish to catch. And though Vera had every desire to continue on as the wild and utterly carefree evercub of the Peaceful Valley, everything that had come to pass the previous day, from the chastisement she received from Mother when she had returned empty-pawed from the stream, to the preferential treatment Art had received at Toot-Hoot's cottonwood tree, had served to tell her that the Forest no longer wanted her to remain this way. It seemed that the Forest finally wanted her to grow up.

Per usual, Vera's forthright nature did little to ward off the ensuing scoldings. To live and breathe the truth as Vera did meant to reveal the full spectrum of her nature to others, even if this exposed her weaknesses. Art, on the other hand, kept his shortcomings so well concealed that they appeared to be entirely absent. Where Vera was loud, Art tread the earth more softly than the nimble squirrels. Where Vera volunteered her thoughts and opinions with capricious and often blunt spontaneity, Art held his own counsel, revealing the musings that lit his silvery eyes only when prodded. Thus Vera's lapses in propriety earned her constant criticism; while Art, who interrupted Toot-Hoot and forgot his chores nearly as often as she did, was regarded as the principled evercub, the better behaved and more mature of the pair. Why can't you be more like Art? the Forest seemed to ask of her.

But Art had lied from the very beginning. And the Forest had not noticed.

Art could not know of the drama that was unfolding within Vera, despite his heightened emotional insight. To him, Vera's mind was a vast ocean. He had grown adept at reading its surface surges, those happy swells of excitement, whimsy, and occasional indignance that rose and fell and always melted back into the lively calm that pervaded Vera's day-to-day temperament. But waves in the ponderous ocean of mind arise not only from surface winds, but also from its undercurrents of motivation and desire. Art had not dived deeply enough into Vera's consciousness to encounter these murky currents. Therefore, he could not understand how his actions played upon Vera's insecurities, any more than the tide understands its role in the development of a whirlpool. He was young, after all - principled, considerate, and more attuned than most cubs to the ways of the mind - but still very naive. And in his innocence, he remained oblivious to the root of Vera's petulance, even as he resolved to make peace with her.

So the next morning, when Art stirred in the golden warmth of the dawn, he caught the surface sprays of Vera's emotions as he always did; and from them, he read the ordinary signatures of her playful, cheerful self. His head and his heart were fresh and clear. Vera was too spirited, too loving, to remain angry for long, he reasoned. Sure enough, Vera's sleepy eyes settled on Art for a moment, and then she cracked a grin and nudged him lightly in the ribs. And in so doing, she lulled Art into relief.

Thus the evercubs rose and breakfasted in harmony, under the watchful eye of Mother. Gently she nosed the young pair out of the cave and into the forest proper, where they traipsed happily through the veil of fog that coated the topsoil. Occasionally one of their company would point out some small monument of beauty to the others, like the shining of the dew upon the cobwebs; but they trekked mostly in silence, in homage to the peace of the Valley's newest daybreak.

Art was content to nurture this stillness, this great pause before the plunge into the day. He would have kept his peace for half the morning, too, had it not been for Vera. For beneath her shining demeanor, he perceived self-conscious reticence behind her breastbone every time she caught his eye.

Soon the fir trees thinned, then yielded to cottonwoods, and then finally gave way to grassy shores. They had reached the river once again, as they did every day for their morning swim. Here the mist had already dissipated under the sun's unencumbered assault, and the green lawn of riverbank lay bejeweled with dew before them. The evercubs careened through the glittering blades to unite with the shimmering water, while Mother followed more slowly.

Throughout their ritual of splashing themselves down, Vera's discomfort only intensified. It was downright shyness, Art realized. The closed, hesitant stoop of her shoulders was just as it had been six years ago, when Mother had taken them both to see Ma Anhah soon after Art had been rescued. Vera had hung her head before the great bear, diffident in voice and deferential in pose and glance, acting in that moment as the utter foil to her normally demonstrative self. Before that day, Art had never beheld such modest displays from Vera, and since that time she exhibited them only within the confines of Ma Anhah's cave - until today, it seemed.

Just as Art was about to ask Vera about this, she flounced over to his side. Then she steeled herself and spoke. "About yesterday…" she began, "you know, when I called you a two-face..."

Art cocked his head to his left, unconsciously imitating Vera's customary pose of curiosity. Unbeknownst to both cubs, Mother smiled at this gesture from her place further upstream.

"I was mean to you, and I'm sorry," Vera finished.

Art blinked, suddenly just as embarrassed as his counterpart. "Um, it's okay," he said. Carefully he scrutinized the ripples the running water made as it glided past his feet. "You know, I'm sorry too. For making you so angry."

And just like that, Vera's shyness evaporated, as if the morning sun had banished it with the fog of the dawn. The young bear drew closer and grinned. "So what's your name for real?" she asked. "Does it really start with Art?"

"Um, well..."

"Why didn't you tell me before? Did you not like it? Or did it mean something silly? I'll bet you it's not that bad…"

As Vera talked, Art gazed longingly at the large, brown wall of fur that was Mother, who was nosing through the wet pebbles a good distance upstream.

"So once we start using it, I'm sure everyone will get used to it," Vera was saying. "I'll make sure no one laughs. And if they do, I'll show them a thing or two." Her speech delivered, Vera finally stopped talking and looked up, only to find her friend peering at her in disquietude. Astonished, she dropped her smile at once. "What's wrong?"

Art's eyes peeked up at her from under a worried roof of slanted eyebrows. "Um…" he mumbled.

"You aren't embarrassed, are you?"

In the silence, the anticipatory sparkle in Vera's eyes faded. In the meantime, Art drew away from her like a sunflower shirking the darkness.

"Oh. You aren't going to tell me," said the bear cub.

Art grimaced. He had been steeling himself for an icy rebuke, or a glare at least; but he had not been prepared for the mighty wave of disappointment that now accompanied her pronouncement.

As this wave broke upon the shores of his insight, Art groped vainly for some semblance of an explanation. But his voice had lodged itself in a corner of his windpipe, like a frightened cub clinging to its mother's legs. He nearly coaxed it out for long enough to tell her that he was sorry – but his demon, fear, returned in earnest and quashed the words flat.

"It's okay," said Vera softly. "You don't have to tell."

And that was all. No flame of irritation leaped within the young breast today. Instead, the hearth that housed it glowed, gently smoking in a heavier, more docile heat. It was pain, Art realized. In his silence, he had put his best friend in pain.

Mother returned, bearing freshly gutted trout in her jaws. Solicitously, she nudged Vera's paws until they opened to accept the lean flesh. As the bears ate, Art retreated uncertainly to the wood's edge, uprooting wildflowers and popping them into his mouth. Thus both cubs chewed, not only on their procurements, but also on their unsettled thoughts. Each peeped surreptitiously at the other from behind nonchalant paws, as if in an absurd game of peek-a-boo.

"What's gotten into you both?" Mother pressed, taking in both Art's and Vera's identical expressions of solemn watchfulness. "Why the long faces?"

"Mother, can we practice fishing for longer today?" Vera asked, as if in answer. "I want to act like a grown up bear – fangs or no fangs."

And with this pronouncement, Vera determinedly let Art's name go. As Mother obliged her and began her extended fishing lesson, Vera drowned her letdown in the River Prem, where she numbed both her paws and her heart in the water's icy depths. Art joined them at the riverbank and watched for a time, as both Mother and daughter hunkered down in the stream, parallel in intent and in motion. He attempted to copy them, bending over as they did, hunting the springy sea of grass for the juicy prey of clover leaves and thistle roots. But try as he might to arrange himself in Vera's position, both physically and mentally, he could not bring himself to break his silence. Twenty minutes later found him slinking away, back into the comfort of the trees. It was only much later, when both bears emerged from the stream, that Vera realized Art had left her a pile of rose petals before leaving them alone.


End file.
